The Lying Room Read online

‘The truth,’ repeated Hitching. ‘That would be nice.’

  As Neve left the room, she glanced at Celia Ryman who seemed to be looking right through her.

  Seven and a half hours later, a police officer drove Neve home. She was still dressed in the drab borrowed clothes. They’d taken her little rucksack too, and they’d taken her phone: she felt a brief throb of fear at the thought that they might find that deleted text that one week ago had started this whole story. She had been allowed to call Fletcher from the station, and she had very briefly told him what she was telling Hitching. He had barely been able to speak when he heard. When he did, it was as though he was caught on a loop of incredulity. ‘Will!’ he kept saying, and ‘Oh my God, are you OK? Oh my God!’

  Now she sat in the back of the car and watched London pour past her. She found it hard to believe that this day was real. It lay behind her like a movie she had seen long ago and could only remember in incoherent snatches. The dawn bike ride; the baby’s pink and wrinkled face and her dark, old-woman’s eyes; the moment when she had heard the flat door open and close and knew that Will was there; Mabel flinging herself across the room with that ecstatic expression on her face; the body on the floor in its pool of blood. So much blood.

  At the station she had told her story again, and then again, until every word felt like nonsense, every truth a lie and every lie an absurd transparent concoction. She had sat in a plastic chair and felt Hitching’s eyes boring through her. She had drunk glass after glass of water, never enough, and several mugs of tepid milky tea, and she’d taken a bite out of a tuna and mayo sandwich someone had brought her; the plasticky bread had stuck in her teeth and the taste of fish had made her want to heave.

  When had she last eaten a proper meal? When had she last slept through the night? She was hollow with hunger and her eyes burned. But she was going home.

  As the car approached her road, she told the driver to stop.

  ‘I’ll get out here.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  He shrugged and pulled over. Neve climbed out. She needed the wind in her face and the feel of the ground beneath her feet. She waited till the car drew away again and then went into the Portuguese deli. Erico was stacking cardboard boxes; his eyes widened when he saw her.

  ‘Your face,’ he said.

  ‘Another accident,’ said Neve.

  ‘You must stop biking, Neve.’

  ‘Am I in time to buy a few things?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I don’t have any money with me. Can I pay you tomorrow?’

  He opened his arms in an expansive gesture. ‘No hurry.’

  Neve picked up a basket. She filled a paper bag with cherry tomatoes, another with courgette flowers, which made her think of her neglected allotment. She took handfuls of peppery salad leaves, several avocados, radishes, some padron peppers which Fletcher loved. There were some late raspberries on offer and she put three punnets of them in the basket. Ricotta cheese, parmesan, tubs of creamy hummus, falafels, pitted olives, a large soft slice of brie, several wafer-thin slices of prosciutto, garlicky flatbreads, salted caramel chocolate, ginger beer and two bottles of good red wine. She remembered Connor and put in a tub of butterscotch ice cream.

  Erico carefully packed everything in a big cardboard box, the lighter things on top. He opened the door for her and as she left he said, ‘Take care, Neve,’ in such a kind voice that Neve almost started to sob in front of him.

  She walked home, her arms aching, and she rang the bell. She heard footsteps running and then the door was flung open and Fletcher was there, his face screwed up in anxious solicitude. He took the box and put it on the floor and he hugged her and she felt his beard scratch against her cheek and his fingers press into her skin. She thought that she might break into a hundred pieces. But then Mabel came down the stairs, one step at a time, and Neve moved away from Fletcher and held out her arms. When Mabel stepped into them she whispered, ‘It’s all right, everything’s all right. It’s over,’ and she felt her daughter’s body begin to tremble against hers, or perhaps it was her own body trembling.

  ‘Will Ziegler,’ said Fletcher. ‘Will fucking Ziegler.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ said Neve. ‘Not tonight.’

  ‘But who would have thought—?’

  ‘Not now, Fletcher. I can’t.’

  He shrugged, nodded, and looked down at the box of provisions. ‘Only you would do a food shop after going through such a day. But I’m going to order us a takeaway. You go and have a bath.’

  ‘I don’t know. It might be Mabel’s last meal before she goes,’ said Neve. ‘Mabel?’

  Mabel gave a sour grimace. ‘Why would I stay in this bloody madhouse a day longer than I need to?’ she said.

  ‘That’s my brave daughter,’ said Neve.

  Their eyes met. Mabel gave a little nod. A nod of understanding, of complicity.

  ‘So we’re going to have a proper meal together,’ Neve said. ‘Is Renata still here?’

  ‘She’s gone back to her house,’ said Fletcher. ‘Charlie came to collect her. I don’t know if that’s a good or bad thing.’

  ‘So it’s just us five. Just family. That’s good.’

  Neve took off her borrowed clothes, showered and dressed in a loose, long-sleeved dress. She and Rory cooked together. She showed him how to stuff the courgette flowers with ricotta and grated parmesan, then coat them with a thin batter. He scowled in concentration, his bony shoulders tense as he fried them in batches and then laid them on a plate and drizzled honey across them. Neve cut tomatoes and sliced avocados, shook salad leaves into a bowl, laid the cheese and the prosciutto on a board, put olives in a bowl, heated the flatbreads in the oven. Outside in the garden, where the light was failing and the new greenhouse stood empty, Connor kicked a football to and fro, shouting encouragement to himself, lifting his fist in imagined victory. Fletcher opened the wine and Mabel laid the table.

  Neve lit candles, and everyone sat down together. She looked from face to face. Connor was shovelling food into his mouth, his face red from his exertions. Rory picked delicately at the meal, making neat packages on his fork, chewing methodically. He looked contented, thought Neve, and her heart contracted: it took so little. Fletcher still seemed dazed; he kept glancing across at her and opening his mouth to say something, but then meeting her stern gaze and stopping himself.

  And Mabel. Mabel was very quiet tonight, but it wasn’t the black-hole silence that Neve and Fletcher had come to dread over the years; rather, she was subdued and thoughtful. She seemed very small and very young, thought Neve: surely too young to be leaving home. Was this it, then, the end of Mabel’s childhood? She thought of her daughter as a baby, of holding the squashy, sweet-smelling weight of her. She thought of her as a toddler, when if she was hurt or upset Neve could pick her up and comfort her. Going off to school for the first time, with a red school bag almost as big as her. As an eager little girl, wanting to please. As a stormy, ferocious adolescent, lashing out at anyone who tried to help her, almost ruining her own life and the lives of those who loved her.

  And now she was leaving home.

  Neve raised her glass, put her finger to her lips for silence.

  ‘To our fabulous Mabel,’ she said.

  Everyone raised their glasses of wine or ginger beer. ‘To Mabel.’

  Mabel scowled. Neve smiled and smiled. Everything was too much; love was just too much to bear.

  Fletcher cleared away and Neve went upstairs with Rory and Connor, made sure they cleaned their teeth, made sure their clothes were ready for school tomorrow and their homework was in their bags. She kissed them both on their foreheads, adjusted their duvets, turned off their lights.

  She went into Mabel’s room. Two cases stood ready on the floor, and a box of books and another of kitchen items. Beside them was the duvet, still in its plastic, and new bed linen and towels. Mabel sat on the bed, plaiting her hair.

  ‘All ready for tomorrow?’ Neve a
sked.

  ‘As ready as I’ll ever be.’

  ‘Why don’t I come as well?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Oh. OK.’ She tried not to sound hurt.

  ‘You can come and visit me though.’

  ‘I’ll miss you.’

  ‘You’ll be glad I’m not here,’ said Mabel. ‘Making your life a misery.’ She looked up at her mother. ‘Will I be all right?’

  Neve sat beside her and put her arms around her.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You will be. You are. And whenever you’re not, call me. I’ll be there.’

  ‘I know.’ There was a pause and then she asked: ‘What did you do?’

  ‘You don’t need to know.’

  Mabel nodded. ‘I’ve been so scared.’

  ‘You saved me,’ said Neve. ‘You saved my life.’

  ‘You saved mine,’ said Mabel. ‘Lots of times.’

  9

  Leaving Home

  Neve pulled up the blinds and the kitchen sprang into life like a theatre set, empty and waiting for the familiar show to begin.

  It was ten past seven. She filled a glass with water and drank it slowly, tied her dressing gown more firmly, took a deep breath and turned to face the room. The door opened on cue.

  Rory was first, as he always was. He sat at the table, poured himself a large bowl of cornflakes, and ate it with a book propped up in front of him.

  Fletcher arrived, his hair still damp from the shower, and made a pot of tea. He emptied the dishwasher while Neve made porridge for Connor and then packed lunches for the boys.

  Now Fletcher went to the bottom of the stairs and called for Connor.

  Soon Connor was in the room, face still puffy from sleep, his shoelaces undone, a bit grumpy and spoiling for a fight.

  Mabel came in and Fletcher was pouring boiling water over her spiced-ginger teabag and saying something about leaving by nine. He turned the radio on for the seven-thirty news and sat down with his toast and marmalade.

  Family life, thought Neve – carrying us all forward.

  She walked with the boys to the school gate, watched them disappear. She saw Sarah in the distance; both women raised their hands in acknowledgement then went in opposite directions.

  Back home, Fletcher was loading the car. Mabel came down the stairs, her jacket over her arm. She looked composed but when they hugged goodbye she held on to Neve tightly.

  ‘What will you do today?’ she asked.

  ‘Perhaps I’ll actually go to the allotment,’ said Neve, and Mabel’s face broke into a grin.

  She got into the car, pulled the door shut, opened the window and leaned out. But she didn’t say anything, just looked back as the car pulled away.

  Neve was alone in the house and the empty day lay ahead of her.

  She called her mother and told her that she thought Rory would like binoculars for his birthday.

  She phoned Fletcher’s parents and made a date to visit them.

  She put the breakfast things into the dishwasher, sprayed the surfaces. She vacuumed downstairs and wiped away stains, all the signs of the previous week when this house had been so full of people. She scrubbed at a stain on the carpet – was that Renata’s blood? Her own?

  She went into the spare bedroom and stripped the sheets from the bed where Renata had slept, put them into the washing machine. Then into Connor and Rory’s rooms, where she opened the curtains, pulled up the duvets, gathered dirty clothes.

  In Mabel’s room, the wardrobe was full of hangers, the drawers were empty. There were patches on the wall where posters had been stuck, and gaps in the bookshelf. Neve picked up a shirt that Mabel had left in a corner and put her face into its silky folds, breathing in the smell of her daughter. Then she took the sheets off the bed, opened the windows, picked up a mug, went downstairs again.

  She opened the fridge and took out the remaining salad leaves from last night and took them into the garden. Sitting on the damp grass beside Whisky’s hutch, she called softly. He bustled out of the straw, pressing his snout against the wire mesh.

  ‘Hello,’ said Neve. ‘Time for your big clean.’

  She closed the wire run with the little creature safely inside it and pushed the dandelion leaves through to him. Then she tipped all the straw out of the wooden hutch and dumped it into the compost. She got a basin full of soapy water and some spray and she scrubbed everything thoroughly before laying a thick layer of sawdust on the floor and then filling it up with fresh straw. She washed the bowl and filled it with food; topped up the water bottle, reattached the hutch to the run.

  ‘Do you know,’ she said to the guinea pig. ‘There was nobody I didn’t think could have killed him. I suspected all the people I loved the most and knew the best. My friends, my husband, my beautiful, brave daughter.’

  She waited. The sky had darkened and a few large drops of rain fell.

  ‘Saul died because of me,’ she told him. ‘He just got in the way. It was meant to be me. It was just a stupid, stupid accident.’

  The garden was quiet. There was hardly a breath of wind.

  ‘I loved him. I shouldn’t have, but I loved him very much. But it’s finished,’ she said. ‘All done. I’ve come home.’

  Because there was no one she could tell. For the rest of her days, she would never be able to talk about what had happened to her over these few weeks in autumn, when she had fallen for a man who would die: what she had done, what she had felt, what she had risked and what she had saved; what she had lost.

  Her hidden life. Her secret self. Her terrible days in the sun.

  10

  Back in the Allotment

  Even though it was a weekday, there were a number of people at work on their allotments, a motley collection, mainly middle-aged, mainly grey-haired. They didn’t mingle much, just exchanged the occasional complaint about too little rain or too much rain, or politely praised Jenny’s over-wintered broad beans or the fragrant late raspberries grown by an ancient, wrinkled man whose name Neve had never quite caught.

  Over the past weeks, Neve had come here whenever she could, often spending hours in the cold and the rain salvaging the last of the potatoes and marrows, pulling up the thicket of weeds and hacking away the thistles, cutting the raspberry cane down to short sticks. Her palms were callused from digging. There was dirt under her nails.

  She saw Hitching from a distance picking his way through the patchwork of gardens. He looked incongruous in his grey suit and dark tie. One woman stopped digging and leaned on her spade to look at him as he passed her, giving her a brief nod. Neve wondered what must be happening to his fine leather shoes. But mainly she wondered what he was going to say. She hadn’t spoken to him for three weeks. A little more than three weeks. Almost a month. Every time there was a ring at the door, she had thought it might be him. Now he was here. He was alone. Or he seemed to be alone. To get to the allotment, you had to walk along a narrow passage between two houses on Langham Road. There could be police cars waiting for her there. After all, what was she going to do, there in the middle of her allotment with her spade and her wellington boots? Hit him over the head and make a run for it?

  When he was still some distance away, their gazes met and he half raised an arm in greeting. There followed an awkward minute when they were too far away to speak and so Neve looked around at her little patch, as if she were assessing it. When she turned round, Hitching was beside her.

  ‘I called at the house,’ he said. ‘Your husband said you were here.’

  ‘I’m preparing for winter.’

  ‘Looks like it. Lots of digging, I’d imagine.’

  ‘Quite a lot.’

  ‘How was your harvest?’

  ‘Fairly disappointing.’

  ‘How were the courgettes and squash?’

  Neve managed a smile. ‘They’ve come and gone. I’ve got a few potatoes left. They’re rather undemanding. They can just wait under the soil until you’re ready for them.’

  ‘Bu
t a disappointing year on the whole?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Even though you’ve spent so much time here.’

  Neve looked at Hitching with more attention. Was he still trying to catch her out?

  ‘I wasn’t here as much as I wanted when it mattered. I’ll do better next year.’

  ‘That’s what I always tell myself,’ said Hitching. ‘It never works.’

  ‘I think I’ll do better. Now that my daughter’s left home, it will . . .’ She paused. ‘I don’t know. It might fill the space.’

  ‘Mabel went to university?’

  ‘She did. In the end.’

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘She keeps threatening to quit but she’s still there. That’s something. Nothing will ever be easy for Mabel.’

  The two of them stood in silence for a while. Neve surveyed the freshly tilled earth and then looked back at Hitching. His expression had turned more sombre.

  ‘So,’ he said, as if he were beginning a prepared statement. ‘Me and my colleague Celia Ryman have spent the last few days reviewing the file. This has involved a careful—’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Neve. ‘Could you skip straight to the end of this?’

  Hitching looked mildly offended.

  ‘All right.’ When he spoke again, it was as if he were delivering a prepared text. ‘After conducting an investigation, it has been concluded that the death of William Ziegler was either an accident or a case of lawful killing and that there is no cause for further action. Every single bit of your story was tested against the evidence at the scene: it was amazing how neatly it fitted, like a perfect machine. Things are usually a lot messier than that.’

  Neve kept her gaze on his.

  ‘And, since I imagine you’re interested, we have also concluded that Ziegler did indeed murder Saul Stevenson. Even the hammer he used against you was consistent with the injuries to Stevenson. So what do you think of that?’

  So what did Neve think of that?

  At first she thought nothing at all. She felt like the ground was swaying beneath her. She felt like she might faint and fall forward into the mud. It took an immense effort to answer in an even tone: ‘I think that’s right.’